


Hand It Over, That Thing; A Dark Souls Anthology

by crabmannington



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabmannington/pseuds/crabmannington
Summary: A collection of fan made stories set in and around the Dark Souls Universe; like the worlds that our protagonists find themselves in, time is convoluted, with heroes from past, present and future phasing in and out.
Relationships: Various (Dark Souls)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1)
> 
> Greirat, once a legendary Thief and champion of the common man, sits in a cell at the High Wall of Lothric.  
> His life isn't as busy as it used to be, however, which leaves much time for reminiscence.  
> Sometimes, for one's own sanity, things are better left forgotten.
> 
> Chapter 2)  
> Wolves approach.
> 
> Chapter 3)  
> A conversation unfolds, in Things Betwixt.
> 
> Chapter 4)  
> Things have gone horribly wrong in the kingdom of light

_Life as a vendor had never suited Greirat. He’d tried it before, oh a long time ago. But something about keeping your profits up while wanting to *provide* for those around you, it just appeared much more like an oxymoron to him._   
_That train_ _of_ _thought, on a temperate, unremarkable morning in the outskirts of Lothric Castle after missing the travelling grocer, was among the most important of a then young Greirat’s life. “Who am I fooling”, thought Greirat, “my feet itch. With me cooped up in that old squat, I can no more provide for my townsmen than if I weren’t ever here at all. What_ **_if_ ** _I were, never here at all. Would anybody even notice?”._   
_This melancholy washed over Greirat on many a morning in the early years, and indeed the afternoon and night were often not spared from that wave of sadness that never quite seemed to relent._   
_“Would anything be..._ **_different_ ** _? People still starve, while the nobles of Lothric simply tread on our bones after we puff our last. What good can a merchant do, all the way down here?”_

_Were it a normal day, Greirat's bout of class consciousness_ _probably_ _would_ _have_ _been_ _as fleeting as an Evangelist's prayer._  
 _But that day was not destined to be what one could describe as normal, for as Greirat opened the door to his shack, he came across a visitor. "Odd,_ _I_ _haven't had a customer in as many weeks"_  
 _This was not, however, a customer looking to peruse his_ _low-market_ _salves, or any of the effigies he spent long hours carving in_ _the_ _night. This was a thief. A thief who was now, pointing a dagger (if you could call it that, it was of Greirat's own stock, and he never sold anything truly functional) right at him._

_Greirat_ _stayed his ground, as he hadn't much in the way_ _of_ _wares, but ever since he came across the rotted owner of_ _this_ _house he had claimed it his, and_ _whether_ _or not he had anything of value, it was of value to him._  
 _"Listen,_ _listen_ _to me please. If_ _you're_ _looking_ _for_ _anything you can line your purse with,_ _you're_ _as_ _out_ _of luck as_ _I_ _am. I know that if you meant to harm me, that there knife would already be halfway through my chest. Now if_ _I_ _can be of any assistance, we can help each other along, but no_ _good_ _will come of you holding_ _that_ _knife any longer. Please"._  
 _Through the_ _squint_ _of the makeshift rag that the Thief had fashioned_ _over_ _their face,_ _Greirat_ _could unmistakably see in their eyes something that he'd known all_ _his_ _life; hunger. Not just hunger for bread, but a hunger for anything, anything more than what the gods had granted._ _Greirat_ _saw a burning desperation to survive, in the eyes of this thief, and_ _maintaining_ _eye contact, he took a_ _step_ _forward, and another, and another, until his hand was nearly in_ _touch_ _with_ _the thief's. This hand that shook like a deserter's conniptions._  
 _He never broke eye contact with the thief._ _Greirat_ _knew that every intent_ _of_ _one's soul was etched in the eyes. And Greirat wanted to_ _make_ _it clear that the thief was,_ _ironically_ _, safe in the house they had been trying to invade._  
 _"Alright then,_ _I'm_ _going to take this off your hands now, yes? I_ _don't_ _think either of us has need for it"._ _Greirat_ _was a man not_ _impressive_ _of_ _stature by any metric, but the_ _closer_ _he got to the thief, the more he wondered if he had been invaded by a bell-keeping_ _dwarf_ _, or some other poor malnourished wretch._  
 _As the thief's hand shook, Greirat slowly clasped his hand around the rusty blade, and maneuvered it so that he_ _could_ _simply pry it from the thief's_ _rather_ _delicate grip._  
 _"Now. That's that done,_ _thank_ _you. Thank you_ _for_ _working alongside me there. Now, it seems to me that you're perhaps not having the best run of things. Well neither am I, neither is anyone here in the Undead Settlement. But_ _I_ _believe, we can help each other. All_ _it_ _takes is for somebody_ _to_ _try. So with that in mind, my name is Greirat, and you are welcome in my home. May... may I ask_ _your_ _name?"_

_The Thief took a slow, deep breath in an attempt to still themselves. Slowly, cautiously they removed their mask, and what was revealed was no_ _dwarf_ _, merely a little girl, a scared child; ragged, gaunt and clearly devoid of anything resembling rest._

_"I'm truly sorry for how we've met, Ser Greirat, had_ _I_ _known I'd be met with any kindness in a place such as this I wouldn't have... well, my name is Loretta. And if_ _you_ _don't_ _mind it Ser,_ _I_ _really_ _rather_ _could use someplace where_ _I_ _could lay my head._ _I've_ _been wandering such a dreadfully long time". To this day Greirat could remember the tears in her eyes, as though she hadn't_ _been_ _able to admit to_ _anyone_ _for years the hardship she'd been through, nor show any sign of weakness. For Greirat knew_ _it_ _was a cruel world beyond_ _the_ _walls, and Gwyn only knew how long she'd travelled._

_"Yes, yes of course, Loretta. There's a blanket upstairs, hopefully something_ _resembling_ _comfort that you can rest on. You rest, Loretta, we can speak more at Dawn"._ _Greirat_ _surprised_ _himself_ _at taking in a visitor, especially in the unorthodox manner with which they'd first met, but in truth, his life had_ _been_ _an ultimately lonely one. Greirat was a man of few compatriots, and so really, any company is greater than that, is it_ _not_ _?_   
_"Oh and Loretta? Please, please_ _never_ _do call me_ _Ser_ _again. Just Greirat, will do fine"_

_●_

Greirat woke from his cell to a commotion outside. Had his guards gone mad? Had a fight club ensued? Surely the dragon he could have swore he had heard before couldn't have made it all the way down here. He heard fire erupt, and could swear he'd be puffing his last. After all these years and twice as many brushes with the gods of sin and death, Greirat the Thief would puff his last breath in a piss-stained cell off the high wall of Lothric Castle. "Oh fuck" he muttered to himself, "Loretta, I truly am sorry, I do believe my time has near spent. Oh Loretta, how I hope your fate is kinder than mine, I...", Greirat opened his eyes to see an unfamiliar character, dressed in hastily cobbled together scraps of armour and weaponry plucked from the corpses of his own captors. The figure was silent, but imposing of presence. It would have appeared that there was still some luck surrounding old Greirat yet.

"Ahh, you're no jailer. No, no you're from far away aren't you? And judging by that bell, you must be some of that unkindled Ash..."

Greirat felt as though he could perhaps trust this Unkindled Ash to carry himself, as really what other choice did he have? This Ashen One was covered in the blood of those who would have executed him, so in Greirat's books he was a friend indeed.

Now, perhaps, this Unkindled champion could do old Greirat one little favour. "Never hurts to ask, eh?" He thought. "Loretta will know that I'm alright, And if anyone can see to it that **she's** safe, my money would be on the Unkindled madman who's slaughtered his way through the castle..."

Yes, Greirat had a feeling that his luck really was turning around.


	2. Beware; God Is Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere out there, a young woman wails in agony, in terror.
> 
> Somewhere out there, villagers scurry in panic, rallying in arms.
> 
> Somewhere.
> 
> Somewhere out there.
> 
> Wolves approach.
> 
> There will be an execution tonight.
> 
> It will be called a mercy killing.

"I close my eyes and seize it,  
I clench my fist and beat it,  
I light my torch and burn it,  
I Am The Beast I Worship"

I

In the dark, a young woman cries. Her moans of agony, the cries of desperation and the laboured breathing send panic, chills through the minds of the other villagers. From outside the tent, they hear the groans, the inhuman baritone, the rending of flesh.

"No, this can't be happening, not us!"  
"We must silence her! She'll alert a patrol!"  
"We are being punished by the gods!!! She is being punished!"  
"We should never have let her come here. That bitch and her Dark Magic"

The crowd begins to rally in their panic, in a guttural fear that binds them. There will be an execution tonight. It will be called a mercy killing.

As the villagers approach the tent to the rear of the encampment, a whistle pierces the air. The world stops, save for the cries.  
Flames, to the left.  
Another whistle.  
Flames, to the right.  
Another whistle.  
Dozens now.  
Flame, everywhere.  
The encampment is being swallowed where it stands, by flame inescapable. 

There will be an execution tonight.

The villagers track the path of the arrows to a hill behind them.

They stand above them, towering over them, in a row that outnumbered them tenfold.

Barbarians.  
Raiders.  
Legion.

The sun sets behind Farron's Undead Brigade. The fire of the sun is harnessed, and utilised in their cleansing war.

It will be called a mercy killing.

The whistling stops. Silence, in the ebony canyon. All save for one young woman, screaming in her tent.

The Legion advances.

In seconds, the Watchdogs of Farron descend upon the encampment. Swallowing the area whole. A flurry of fire, fury and blade.  
The villagers had weapons, to be sure; no man, woman or child travelling through Carthus would be sane to travel unarmed.  
But nothing would prepare them for the unbridled rage and vitriol of the Legion.

They didn't fight like men. They fought like animals. A swarm, or rather, a pack.  
The village was being raided by wolves, and they were ravenous tonight.

Amidst the fray, the screaming stops. The young woman lies on a canvas, a makeshift gurney on which she has been haemorrhaging, oozing with an arcane sludge. As outside, everything she knows is cut into lifeless heaps.

The legion are indiscriminate. They aren't heroes in shining white armour, no paladins, nor do they claim to be. They claim nought. They watch, they hunt, and they leave.

As dusk wanes, the Legion have nearly finished what they set out to do.  
Viscera is crushed to pulp under iron and leather; townsfolk run through, torn from nave to chop, pulverised in a blinding torrent of steel.

The legion now surround the tent. The legion, and corpses.  
Infantrymen enter, and leave with the body of a young woman; her breath is shallow, The Dark seeping through her pores.

It doesn't take much to hoist her up,  
Run her through,  
Gather wood,  
Kindling, for the cleansing flame.

The Dark is primal, powerful. Strike it in infancy, however, and you can destroy it. Destroy it with Gwyn's holy fire.

As the Legion depart the way they came, one last whistle.  
Right on the mark.

The young woman burns brightly, the screams and wails of an abyssal terror struck down, ring through the valley.

"Where to now?", an infantryman calls.

There's no answer. Farron's Undead Legion waste no time on talk.

Seeds of The Dark are in bloom in Carthus. There is work yet to be done.


	3. Furies, Muses, and Crones.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is the enemy.
> 
> The world is your enemy  
> .  
> Don't let it in.
> 
> Bring him back.
> 
> Be the knight you've always been.
> 
> Bring him home.
> 
> Remember his name.
> 
> Remember your name.
> 
> Remember.
> 
> And don't forget.
> 
> Time is your enemy.

"Oh, oh no."

*"Poor girl."*

*"Poor thing."*

"What's your name, girl?"

*"You've come a long way, girl".*

"You poor, poor thing.

Tell me, girl.

What have you left behind?"

"..."

"Oh no, my dear. You… you don't... know, do you?

Let me help you recollect. From one vagrant Soul, to another.

Now think.

Think. Hard. Grab them, pluck one of those vagrant thoughts that swirl around in your hollow mind, and remember. Remember. Focus, Girl.

And remember, your name."

*"She can't do it, she can't do it!"  
"Oh goodness, she's lost"  
"She's doomed"  
"Forgotten"  
"All Hollow now"  
"Her brother would be ashamed, she'll never find him"  
"She'll never make him proud"*

"What's that, girl?"

"L.  
L.  
Lu.  
Luca-"

"Keep going girl, you're doing it."

"Lu.  
Luca-  
.  
.  
.  
Lucatiel. My name is Lucatiel."

"Ah, good girl, Lucatiel. Very well done, you might even have a chance out here you know.

And tell me, Lucatiel.

Why are you here?

Why have you stumbled so, to this land, of lost things.  
Of lost souls?"

"Ah yes, family. The shackles that tie us to the life we had.  
You merely wanted to make them proud, didn't you dear.  
You did well. My goodness you're a Knight. That will help you out here, this land of danger, and of peril. But will it keep you…

… you?

Oh I have every faith in you, dear girl.

You may even find him. 

If you can remember his name, that is.

Do you remember what he looks like?

If you saw him, passing through the world..

Would you even know to embrace him, this brother of yours?

Or would you cross swords, as mindless, ravenous beasts. 

Oh who's to say. I'm not one for conjecture.

And besides. It's not as though you're anywhere near gone already. Hollowing hasn't touched you but a dot."

*"Her eye, her eye! The mask won't cover it. She can't hide it. She's already hollow! Oh my, she'll never make it out. She won't make it!"

"She's dead already."

"She's wasting away"

"She'll never find him."*

"My dear girl.

The world is a place of treachery, and of sheer horror. A great evil has taken this land, and swallowed it whole. There remains not much else, but decay and strife.

You need something to hold on to, or you'll lose your marbles altogether.

You need a cause, to fill you. If not for that, well then. I'd be afraid you're hollow already.

Mirrah is a long way away now. Tell me. Do you think you're going back, now that you've came so far?

No matter.

Fret not.

That's for after.

But look!

I don't want you to lose hope, dear girl. In fact, I have a gift for you.

Take it, don't be shy now girl; it's your reward, for sharing. For an indulging an old woman.

Take a look.  
Look deep into it.

Do you know who this resembles?

It's you, my dear.  
It's an effigy of you.

Keep it safe, and it will treat you well.

But anyway.

Make your way through the trails and terrors that await you, and who can be sure? Perhaps you'll find a way to break this curse that's fallen upon you. That's why everyone comes here. And you may well have what it takes.

I have faith in you, girl.

Now go along, go along..

… although if I may ask one thing, before you leave?

...What's your name, girl?"

"Lucat-  
Luca-  
.  
Luc-  
.  
.  
Lu-  
.  
.  
.  
.  
L."

"Hmm.

No matter, girl.

Tarry no longer, and perhaps we'll meet again."

●

Lucatiel stepped out of the cottage, and into twilight.

As she walked, the haze in her mind shifted and stirred.  
She walked through the dark,  
Lost and sullen. Weary.

Her brother got the mark before she did.  
They had both made their family so proud.  
From nothing, they became valorous knights,  
Defying all odds, they lived in service to Mirrah and the World.  
"Oh, Aslatiel", she muttered in a moment of clarity.  
"How far from me can you be?"  
"How many have you slain?"  
She pondered, a troubling thought crossed her mind.

"And have you been slain, yourself?"

There wasn't the time for this inquisition however. Lucatiel had to move; keep moving and never stop until she found him.

"With all my love, dear brother. I'll find you in this world. No matter what."

"We'll be together once again, Aslatiel and Luca.."  
"Luca.."  
"Lu…"  
"Lucatiel. Yes, Lucatiel."

She paused for a moment, to clear her head. She had been good at keeping the nerves at bay, the self doubt; her talent with a blade had eclipsed any uncertainties.  
But things were different now.  
She was on her own, now.

As she progressed through the network of caves, Lucatiel began to smell salt in the air.  
She was nearly out, thank the heavens.

Lucatiel stepped out on to shifting soil, a welcome reprieve from the cragged rock she had just traversed.

She looked over at the horizon. The sunlight illuminated everything as far as the eye could see. Lucatiel saw ruins, crumbling castles that had given way to time, and were being devoured by the colossal waves.  
Lucatiel removed her mask, so she could take it in. A brief moment of respite.  
It wasn't all going to be like this, that much she knew for sure.  
She could taste the spray of the ocean, feel it on her face.  
The curse had begun to take it's share, that much is true. But for one golden moment,  
Lucatiel felt she might be able to do it.

She might bring her brother home.

All as long, as she remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to do notes here because hey why not. If you've read this far (or are just starting off here) then thank you, I appreciate it and hope you're enjoying this anthology.
> 
> I'd wanted to write about Lucatiel for a while now, because for me in Dark Soils 2 she's a really stand-out character. Her story is such a small snippet of the world as a whole but it's actually really emotional, how as you progress you see this accomplished knight start to lose herself. So I kind of wanted to dig into that.
> 
> For the conversation that takes up most of the chapter, I took a bit of inspiration from "The Furies" (not furries, sorry we don't do that here), from ancient mythology and most recently from the Hellblade series. I liked the idea of drawing connecting lines between Lucatiel and the character Senua from Hellblade, because st their core they're both incredibly capable warriors who have been thrown into absolutely shit situations, in order to bring something they love back to 'normality, or back to *them*, regardless of what the protagonist loses on the way.  
> So I felt like having this kind of.. monologue, that gets in the protagonist's head and utilises their self doubt and fear for amusement worked to study Lucatiel's character, and to lay the cards on the table for what she has on the line.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy this short chapter, and have enjoyed it all so far.
> 
> Stay safe guys, thank you;
> 
> Crab.


	4. The Lord Sees Not Our Sorry Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Circumstances in the far-off land of Oolacile grow ever more dire. A darkness is swelling, and even Gwyn's four knights were not prepared for what they would encounter.

"Gwyn isn't watching anymore", Ciaran thought to herself.

This realisation brought a number of things to mind.

"The mission has failed."  
they were too late, too few. A covert mission, a rescue operation, guided reconnaissance, whichever way you looked at it, it was all for nought now.

"Oolacile is doomed.".  
From what they'd been able to tell, the raw vein of Abyssal power that had been struck by the denizens of Oolacile was far more terrible, vicious and insidious for their light sorcery to overcome. There was nothing that could be done, this rot on the world was spreading thick and fast. Screams filled the air from all directions. The fact that she, and her comrades, were alive at all was nigh on a miracle. The only thing that could be done was to inform the serpent Frampt that all had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

'There's no way out, there's no way home".  
Of all things, as if the circumstances hadn't run foul enough, the last of the living dragons, Kalameet, had come to survey the calamity.  
Had Ornstein been here, alongside his brethren, perhaps an extraction would have been possible. A fitting challenge for a celebrity such as he, but alas.

"It matters not, really; for at this rate, there may not be any home to go back to."  
Ciaran knew something that her fellow knights did not. She had always been privy to information that needn't concern the others. She was Gwyn's very own agent of subterfuge, reconnaissance and assassination. Her job, was to be partial to information nobody else should possess.  
And in this particular instance, she knew what was to come.

The Demons of Izalith had been subdued in a long and bloody campaign, at the cost of thousands of knights. Partly due to the sheer savagery that inhabited the land, and the witch's worsening condition, it could be argued that the forces of Gwyn's true flame won by sheer luck and a miracle of timing.

The pathetic rebellion of Dark in New Londo had been utterly crushed. The treacherous kings could lay no claim on the fatherland anymore, for they were drowned by colossal tide where they stood.

But away from prying ears, Gwyn knew that the Age of Fire was beginning to wane. He'd seen enough with his eyes on Oolacile to confirm what horrors would come after.  
Ciaran knew what her Lord, the most powerful soul in all the known world, would do.  
He'd do what he had to now.

But none of that mattered, not right now. For The Lord could not his Three Knights any longer. He'd seen enough, surely.

"Artorias."  
It was not something that oft slipped past the lips of anyone around them; for fraternisation was not encouraged among the elites of Gwyn's ranks.  
Friendship,  
Mirth,  
Warmth,  
Love.  
They were all Too Human.  
To serve Gwyn one had to be as god. Unflinching, Relentless, with a clear mind.  
But nevertheless, Ciaran and Artorias shared something more. Something light, and pure. A “fire” of their own, perhaps.  
Ciaran and Artorias were inseparable. Artorias, ever the stoic knight would cringe to think that he could be anything less than the rugged stalwart he was known throughout the world to be; but to a master of secrets, whether he knew it or not, he found a place to be something more than a weapon.  
Ciaran never let on of the fact. Nobody else needed be concerned; with the things were made to do, the things they were molded from the crags of the earth to do, the war, the brutality, the blood and misery and fire and lightning and--

\-- Ciaran drew a breath. Usually so cool under duress, focused like a dart splitting the twilight sky.  
She couldn't help but remember the first time their hands touched.  
Standing, overlooking the everlasting sun of Anor Londo. Recollecting stories of the battles they'd endured, how many close calls, how many times they'd helped drag the newborn world screaming and bleeding through to where they stood at that very moment.  
It was fleeting, but she remembered.  
A master of secrets always remembers.

But she couldn't see him.

After Artorias and Sif waded through the thick atmosphere of Dark that undulated through the Oolacile township, she couldn't see him any longer. Not with her sight, nor Gough's keen vision, could she tell where he could possibly be.

For probably the first time she could remember, Ciaran felt a chill of fear strike her.  
Fear was not an emotion that Ciaran had oft acquainted herself with. She had killed far too many with ease, for that to happen.  
But it was all coming down now; the vast empire that Gwyn had wrought. The end of it all was in motion.

“Artorias can stop it. He’s as accomplished, moreso perhaps, as any of us. He can stop whatever churns and thrashes in the Darkness. He’s prepared for this. He’s prepared for anything that may come his way..

..isn’t he?”

Doubt had not often crossed Ciaran’s mind either, especially not when she thought of her comrades.  
Of Artorias.  
Art straddled that great slab of iron on his back as if it were nothing; she had been showered with viscera on more than one occasion when the sheer force of his greatsword fell down upon anybody unfortunate enough to find themselves on the other end of it.  
She’d seen man and beast alike cleaved into pulp, Artorias moving like some elegant berserker, dancing some violent ballet, coloured in crimson by the blood of the wretched that had stood in his way prior.  
She knew that Artorias had gained the means to traverse the abyss. She and Gough had objected, told him that flirting with such a malevolent force could bring nought but peril; but in the end they all knew, it was what had to be done.

And so now he was gone.  
Ciaran pondered what oddities Artorias might be enduring after stepping into that howling dark, what abject horrors, what malformations of nature could reside in that thick, coagulated lake of pitch blackness.

Ciaran had been on missions that required days of sitting perfectly still. Lying in wait for her mark like the shadow of death itself.  
Once, she remained in the same spot in a field for a fortnight and a half. No food, no water, all she had was information and a target.  
The point being, Ciaran was patient. Ciaran knew the value of waiting for the right moment.

But no.

Something was different. Something’s happened.

Although her sight could not see Artorias, she could feel him.  
She could feel his Soul now.

“Gough. Stay here. Maintain watch on the dragon. I must take my leave”

Gough turned quizzically and looked at Ciaran, as though taken aback by the sudden urgency in her voice after having stood wordlessly for as long as they had been.

“Artorias. He’s…”

Ciaran said no more. She knew that Gough knew. He always knew. He would have never let on, but Gough had a funny way of knowing everything. Ciaran often pondered that if he weren’t quite as much of a giant as he was, then mayhaps he could have been as good a spy as her.

But Gough knew, so she needn’t have said anything at all.

Before the towering archer could even bid farewell, Ciaran was sliding down the side of a nearby rooftop.

She counted three, four, five…. No, six of the rotten bastards. Hard to mark, they were. Once human, they were all corrupt now. Along with their bloated, pus-filled heads, it was hard to track a heartbeat when a darkness such as this was pumping through their decrepit veins. So she had to focus.

At the end of her slide met a 30 foot drop right above a congregation of the monsters, she boosted herself into the air, tracers primed, leaving streaks of purple and gold in her wake.

She brought all the momentum down with a sick, wet, thud into one of the bloated’s heads; she could feel muscle, flesh and bone cave in under the impact of her foot.

“One.”

Pushing up once again into the air, she flipped clean over another, bringing both daggers where she could only assume the eyes would have been on anyone else, and as her feet made contact with the ground she brought the monster’s head right with her with a sickening tear, followed by the gush of thick fluids gurgling out of its neck.

“Two”

As she readied her daggers once more, a blast of dark magic skimmed right by her, leaving an acidic stain on the wall to her right. Ciaran could not help but think upon what exactly would have happened if she had been a mere few inches taller.  
No time to ponder, Ciaran turned heel to face her attacker with her head low; as the sorcerer (if she could even attribute such a title to such a being) let off another blast of abyssal energy, she launched herself again in the air, gliding right over it and letting off projectiles of her own. Each of the three knives made contact, one in the chest, one in the head (a test, to see if they still truly felt anything, if they maintained any semblance of who they used to be), and one precisely below it’s shoulder; Ciaran knew now that this wouldn’t hurt the creature, but the momentum would be enough to buy her some time to attain her kill. As the gangly beast regained it’s balance and set its sight on her again, she jumped, and brought the full force of her body to guide it’s head cracking and popping into the wall behind it. The creature swung blindly with it’s staff, managing somehow to connect with Ciaran’s ear. She felt a burn, and was nearly disoriented- this mattered not however, as by this time the lumbering beast had been run right through, her tracers had torn the abomination’s chest cavity asunder, allowing nought but a pulsating black mass to spill to the floor.  
The creature giggled weakly, before sliding to the floor.

“Three”

Ciaran turned around to see the other three creatures already running towards her. She could take them on, she knew this. But she didn’t have the time, Artorias was out there, she could still feel him. She was getting close..  
But there was a heavy feeling that followed, that wasn’t there before, not as strongly. She knew that although Artorias had come back, she wasn’t rushing to give a hero’s welcome.  
So time could not be wasted.  
Ciaran turned heel again and scaled the wall. Surveying her surroundings, she heard a whistle get all the closer; the bloated creatures were dead before they hit the ground, as one of Gough’s great arrows came crashing into the ground around them, leaving a crater full of viscera where the paved stone used to be.

Ciaran could hear a deep chuckle echo through the valley, a welcome reprieve from the screaming and the silence, followed by the baritone voice of her friend stating “YOU’RE WELCOME”.  
In different circumstances, she may have even chuckled.

Darting through the township, she knew to stay low and move swift, skimming from one hall to another. She knew that even though she could move past most of the wretched fiends, Kalameet would be stalking the skies too. Kalameet would desire nothing more than to scorch the valley to cinders along with her. It was a mystery, or a stroke of luck perhaps, that the dragon had kept to the outskirts of the city.  
She didn’t bring herself to dwell on the possibility that the last of the living dragons itself knew to be cautious of this great black well beneath the earth.  
Still, she persisted through the streets, debris and sinkholes that had been ripped open by the abyss. For a fleeting moment, she peered down into the abyss, the swirling inferno of black and purple.  
The Abyss had a way of swallowing all sound around it, so much so that even the ground that fell into the great chasm did so utterly silently.  
It was all so quiet,  
It was all so empty,  
It was all so Dark.  
And Ciaran wondered how Artorias ever could have traversed, let alone fought through the wretched blackness.

When she averted her gaze, Ciaran could not rightly tell for how long she had been staring into the blackness. She couldn’t shake the feeling that a precious long time has passed, and that it was too late. Indeed, when she felt Artorias now, she would wince; when she focussed on his Soul, it felt like a screaming, almost a pleading.  
She knew that Artorias was hurt, and gravely so. This elegant berserker that she had harboured such a deep fondness for was doing what he had sworn to do, but how much had he lost of himself in the process?

“Just hold on, Artorias, not much longer now. I’m coming. We may all get out.”

“We may all leave this accursed place, together.”

As she neared the Coliseum, she could feel him more than ever.

She’d never felt him quite this way before.

He was in agony.

His very soul, his mind, everything that Ciaran knew about her comrade; the steel-hearted wolf, was fighting.

And he was losing.

She approached the great stone walls that separated them, she could feel the dark undulating from inside, both from the wretches attacking en masse, and from the defender warring desperately for his flesh, and for his soul itself.

On approach, something held Ciaran back. A silence fell upon the coliseum.

She couldn't bring herself to open the great doors that separated her and her comrade.  
He'd won against the beasts; but alas, a darkness much more insidious had claimed him now.

If it had of been anyone else, she would have scaled the wall and descended on her foe with an almighty, righteous anger.

But not him, not Artorias.

That, she simply could not bring herself to do.

She slumped down on herself, breathing a heavy, sullen breath.

"Gwyn isn't watching us anymore", she spoke in a hushed tone to her giant compatriot. 

"The mission has failed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have my cake and eat it too with a beginning chapter on Ciaran. I wanted to have her as an incredibly accomplished assassin, while kind of still displaying a heart of humanity that lies within the four knights. I kind of wanted to expand upon the implied love that Ciaran had for Artorias without having her seem too "just a love interest", so this was a fun one to write. Hopefully I acconplished this, and you enjoy if you're reading this.
> 
> Thanks!  
> \- Crab


End file.
